“What’s that? Shit or get off the pot?”
She touches her nose and then points at me. “That’s the one.”
I chuckle and picture Miss June. She’s the epitome of an old Southern granny what with the bun and the flowery housedresses. But underneath her soft exterior is a disposition as tough as a one-eared alley cat and a heart as tender and sweet as watermelon wine.
“I love that woman,” I say affectionately.
Maggie chuffs out a laugh. “Everyoneloves Auntie June. There’s just something about her.”
I slide her a look. “Whatever it is, it must run in the family.”
Something flares in her eyes before she glances away, staring into the darkness of the swamp. “We need to plan our intervention for Cash,” she says quietly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s starting to look like poop on parade.”
A long, silent breath escapes me.
I’d hoped after her early morning deliveries of coffee and beignets, after her shy smiles and sweet words, after that hug in front of M.S. Rau Antiques, that she was finally ready to tell me she realizes howgoodwe are together and that we should give this thing between us a chance.
But no. She came to talk about Cash. With her, it’salwaysabout Cash.
When will I learn?
An ache settles behind my breastbone. “I reckon we should do it two weeks from today,” I tell her.
She frowns. “That’s oddly specific.”
“The house will be finished by then, and that Saturday is when we’re supposed to watch the Krewe of Iris roll through town. Beer and beads and bedazzled sunglasses might be just the ticket to put him in a receptive mood.”
She considers this, and I have the oddest urge to rub away the line between her eyebrows. Instead, I grip my mug harder.
“Okay.” She eventually nods. “Two weeks it is.” And then on a breathy sigh, “Sweet Lord, when we were teenagers did you ever think it would come to this?”
“When we were teenagers, I thought you and Cash would be long married with a whole passel of kids. And I thoughtIwould be writing songs for Harry Connick Jr. Life never turns out the way we expect.”
She accepts this universal truth by saluting me with her coffee mug. Then, “Have you looked into the programs the VA offers?”
“Yeah. And I wish I could say I was impressed, but I’d be lying.” How a country with so much wealth can give so little to the men and women who fight for it I’ll never understand. “So I checked out some nonmilitary treatment facilities. The one I like best is up near the Kisatchie National Forest.”
“Woodlawn?”
I lift an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of it?”
“I’ve heard it’s crazy-expensive. Will his insurance cover that?”
I take another drink and try to think of a way to avoid her question.
“Luc?” she prompts.
“I’ve already made arrangements with ’em,” I say vaguely.
“Which meansyou’regoing to pay for it?”
I shrug. “I have a nest egg saved. It’s not a big deal.”
She lets her head fall back, staring at the porch’s ceiling. In the typical Southern custom, it’s painted haint blue, a hue somewhere between turquoise and seafoam. Not that I believe in the old tales that swear the color is capable of keeping restless spirits from entering a house, but Idobelieve in tradition.
Besides, it’s pretty.
“Well, I’ve got a nest egg too,” she says.
